Two weeks ago, I went to Millennium Park, to the Pritzker Pavilion to be exact, to enjoy a concert of a seldom performed Rachmaninoff piece and an even less frequently performed piece by Sibelius. The humidity, which infused the summer air with heaviness earlier in the week, had broken a bit and my sister had secured her usual spot on the lawn, just four steps above the 4000 or so orange amphitheater seats. We had an unobstructed view of the orchestra and chorus, set against a wood paneled hall, nearly 100 feet wide, encased in a Frank Gehry designed shell. The structure captured the feeling of steel ribbons unfurling buoyantly. It has become more than a state of the art music venue in town. The Amoco Building, a majestic white rectangular, less is more style, skyscraper, for many years the second tallest in Chicago, and the Deco style Prudential Tower, shot up directly behind it.

Having fine-tuned our preparation ritual for this most cherished of summer evening activities, an outdoor concert at Millennium Park, we were in our places by 5:30, a full hour before the baton was raised. We had plenty of time to enjoy wine and cold delicacies and conversation. Our lawn chairs were slipped out of their pouches and anchored around a low to the ground, collapsible picnic table covered with a colorful cloth, a family relic from which a tale could be recounted from every stain. Each of us was eager to uncork the wine we brought. Tupperware containers of treats were withdrawn from cold-pac lined coolers. During the day, I whipped up a new winning recipe of chicken salad (poaching the chicken breasts with the skin on was the secret). Barbara brought artisan cheeses from her farmer’s market and a wonderful apricot cake. John and his mother brought stuffed olives, for which I have a special fondness.

The Sibelius piece was a sort of mythic Finnish story featuring a Finnish soprano and baritone, who traveled to Chicago especially for the event, along with a men’s chorus, forty voices strong. The sound of the powerful and tender voices belied the strange tragedy of the story. That I had never seen or heard the piece performed before somehow had my attention dialed up.

As the evening sky began to take on darker tones, as we passed ginger and bacon cookies and opened the Italian white, I marveled at the amazing sight in front of me.

The beautiful Douglas fir paneled orchestra hall was sheathed in interlocking strips of aluminum, hundreds of uniquely sized pieces held together like hand-stitched patches in a quilt. The pavilion could only be seen as the product of genius. And the music — beautiful orchestrations with talented soloists and a committed chorus, providing a fresh experience of musical storytelling — I was entranced. The backdrop of the city skyline only punctuated this point; that man, at his best was capable of incredible things.

Then I remember feeling the sensation of a breeze on my neck, and I thought about what made this scene perfect for me was the temporal beauty of a summer’s night. I felt grateful.

Some people, mindful of man’s potential, often students of mankind’s greatest creative achievements, reject God. For them, human genius is the standard for perfection and inspiration, bestowed through acts of daring invention, is the pinnacle of gifts we can give each other. There are other people who, in their appreciation of nature, reject man’s highest expressions or belittle them as negligible in comparison.

I felt very grateful to be able to experience the best of God and man at the same time; a summer night of easy breezes and intoxicating music performed in a structure of rare brilliance, delivered to me via the most high tech of sound systems as I picnicked with 7000 neighbors I didn’t know.

Holding both the gifts of God and gifts of man as sacred and complementary is no small thing.